


Mars and the Real Meaning of Christmas

by CMackenzie



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mutual Pining, Only One Bed, VMTAP20
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25431637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMackenzie/pseuds/CMackenzie
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 37
Kudos: 142





	1. Thursday, December 20, 2007

“I need your help, Logan.” Already this felt wrong. It was supposed to be the other way around. It was ALWAYS the other way- HIM coming to HER for help. Find my mother, I was falsely accused of murder, locate my sister’s scumbag boyfriend, false murder rap (again), missing trust fund money. Logan was the one who needed HER.

“What is it, Veronica? I’m kinda busy.”

He leaned against the doorjamb, looking better than an ex-boyfriend had a right to look. Wasn’t it a law that all exes needed to get Santa-Claus-fat? Maybe even bald? They were NOT supposed to get buff. And they certainly were NOT supposed to come to the door wearing nothing but a pair of a shorts with water droplets sliding over their chest and down rock-hard abs. 

_Kinda busy_. The words poked at her. Kinda busy doing... what? Or who? She gritted her teeth. Who Logan was _doing_ was none of her business. “I need your help.”

“You said that already.”

Should she come right out and ask? Remind him of his promise, _if you ever need anything_. She bit her bottom lip. That was before Madison. Before Piz. Before they splintered each other’s hearts into tiny shards of sharp edges. Why did she think this was a good idea?

“Me” —he pointed to his chest— “Losing interest, fast.”

 _Bored, jackass-Logan_. Veronica blinked. “Forget it; I shouldn’t have come here.” Turning on her heel, she stalked down the short driveway.

“Veronica, wait!”

Ignoring him, she made the left on the narrow street running behind his house and continued in the direction of her car. He caught up to her at the corner; his hand landing on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

She spun around to glare at him. Crossing her arms over her chest, she lifted her chin. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“My mistake.” He backed up a step. “You came to see me after months of not speaking to what… ask for help moving? No wait, you need a ride to the airport. Or did—”

“My father’s missing.”

“He’s an adult; I’m sure he’ll come home after he’s slept it off.” His gaze moved past her to a spot beyond her shoulder. “Ah, my company’s arrived.” A smirk spread across his face as he glanced at Veronica. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

One of those sharp pieces of her heart shifted, slicing her lungs and making it difficult to breathe. Without saying anything, she dropped her arms, and continued for her car. It was her fault for thinking… She shook her head.

There was no point in analyzing her FEELINGS. She was the one who’d told him it was going to take time and obviously he’d decided waiting around for her to forgive him wasn’t worth it - leaving Hearst while she was in Virginia and moving away from the Grand.

“Hey,” he called after her, but she refused to turn around. She didn’t want to see his face again and she DEFINITELY didn’t want to see his ‘company.’ Rooting through her purse, her fingers closed over her keys. Only a few more steps and she could drive out of his life forever. Logan stepped in front of her, blocking her path and foiling her plan. “Why do you think Keith is missing?”

Right. Her father. Missing. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll figure something out.”

She didn’t have a lot of rich friends. Okay, so she had exactly NO rich friends. Acquaintances? Eh, maybe. There was Dick —he was still floating around campus, presumably going to class— but the idea of letting him touch her was… nauseating.

Logan ducked his head to see her face; concern furrowing his brow. “Let’s start over. You can come inside and tell me about Keith and I’ll promise to dispense with the sarcasm.”

It was her turn to smirk. Logan without sarcasm was… her brain tried and failed to come up with an adequate analogy. What was that impossible? Unassisted human flight? Finding a unicorn in her dorm room? “I don’t want to interrupt your afternoon TRYST.”

“You always go there first. God, Veronica do you think about anything other than sex?” He arched his eyebrows and widened his eyes, faux-shocked. “I do have other interests.”

“Name one.”

He glanced over her shoulder again and held up a wait-one-minute index finger. And again, Veronica resisted the urge to look. An expansive grin spread across Logan’s face as he recognized the effort needed to thwart her curiosity. “Well...proper nutrition is important to me.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. INFURIATING. That was the word to describe him. Irritating, smug, and—

A shouted, “Hey!” from behind them interrupted her silent tirade. “Do you still want this, or what? I don’t have all day.”

She turned. A delivery guy in white t-shirt and red ball cap was holding an insulated warming bag, and glaring at Logan. _I know how you feel, buddy_. “Pizza? THAT’S your idea of nutritious?”

“Says the woman who eats ice cream for dinner.” Logan jogged toward the house. “Plus it’s from Bronx Pizza”—he called, over his shoulder—“extra cheese, pepperoni.”

Two of her weaknesses. Three, if you counted Logan himself, which she definitely DID NOT.

Veronica trailed behind the delivery guy, watched Logan pay him and carry the pizza inside, leaving the door open. It was invitation enough; she walked into the living room.

After seeing Logan live in the overly-decorated, tacky surroundings of his parent’s house, and then in the sterile, impersonal suite at the Grand, she wasn’t sure what to expect from a space designed by him, for him. The beach was a given, and it didn’t disappoint. The view was stunning. Large, folding glass doors were pushed open, accordion-style, creating a seamless flow from living space to deck.

“I’m going to take a quick shower before we eat and then you can tell me about Keith.” A wry grin. “Don’t make yourself at home.”

To hide her annoyance, she averted her face, and focused on the painting above the couch - a print of Hopper’s _Rooms by the Sea._ It was a metaphor for silence and solitude. But the other name for the painting—The Jumping Off Place—made her frown. It could be taken either way, as something dark, or hopeful. A final ending, or the point from which something is begun.

Veronica glanced back at the wood-and-glass spiral staircase, but Logan was already gone. Seconds later, the sound of running water said he’d started his shower. She relaxed, wandered across the sisal area rug to explore.

A blue-gray sofa with welted cushions and funky striped throw pillows stood under the Hopper. Club chairs in the same striped pattern were positioned for optimal viewing of the large flat-panel television, and instead of a coffee table, he had a cocktail ottoman printed with coastal beach signs - sand, sea, surf.

The kitchen was separated from the space by a large island and stools—no dining table—and Veronica opened and closed cabinets as she moved down the line. Bright, multi-colored Fiestaware, drinking glasses, pots, and pans - a fully stocked and functional kitchen. She peeked inside the filled-with-healthy-food refrigerator.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Logan had been taking care of himself, in one way or another, since childhood. It was just strange to see him ADULTING. It was hard to imagine him cooking and cleaning and paying bills. The only thing missing was any indication that Christmas was five days away.

Crossing the floor, she looked up the stairs as she passed—no sign of Logan—and moved to the wall behind them. Three custom bookshelves made of walnut and steel were crammed with a mix of hardcovers and paperbacks. Veronica perused the titles. The Count of Monte Cristo, Catcher in the Rye, The Call of the Wild.

She fingered the leaves of a nearby potted palm, wondered why he didn’t have a Christmas tree.

“It’s real,” Logan said, springing down the stairs. “So did I give you enough time to search all the drawers and cabinets, or should I go change again?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Haha.” For something to do, she pulled out one of the saddle-seat bar stools, and flipped open the pizza box. “What made you leave the Grand?”

Shrugging, he handed her a plate, took down two glasses, and poured them both soda. Instead of answering, he said, “Keith. Missing.”

He was right; this wasn’t a social call, but the reminder that they weren’t friends, still stung. Swallowing her sigh with a bite of pizza, Veronica watched him through lowered lashes. Leaning on the opposite counter, half-turned away from her, he was eating his pizza over the box top, and he looked just as good fully-clothed as he did when wet and in swim trunks.

Shaking off the thought, she asked, “Do you remember Deborah Daily?”

Logan’s grimace said he did. “Sure, who could forget the socialite of Debbie does Daddy Dearest fame?” He dropped his unfinished slice back in the box. “Is she still floating around Neptune? Pun intended.”

Deborah had lost her status as trophy wife when she was discovered in flagrante with the pool boy. “No, she’s living in Aspen now, working as an event planner...of sorts. Really she only works for one place - this very exclusive, luxury ski resort called The Glen?”

He nodded. “I’ve been there.”

Of course he had. “Anyway, they’re hosting this five-day Christmas event billed as a ‘traditional’ holiday getaway for couples only.” She finished her pizza and, without having to ask, Logan slid a fresh slice onto her plate. Veronica smiled her thanks, and he rolled his wrist for her to continue. Smile fading, she peeled the pepperoni away from the cheese. “Part of the festivities is a lavish Christmas Eve party, complete with a full orchestra, dancing, and a charity auction.”

“Oh the rich, whatever will they think of next!” Logan clapped his hands together. “Christmas shopping that’s also a tax write-off!”

She ignored his mocking. “Debbie’s been arranging the auction for months, collecting big-ticket items—Harry Winston jewelry, a classic Ferrari, private plane—you get the idea. And then, about two weeks ago, she started to get worried.”

“That her guests weren’t rich enough to afford such baubles?”

“Not quite. She began to suspect the charity was a fake. On paper it looks legit- an outreach program for troubled teens, but when she finally met the CEO...she had doubts.”

“And she hired Mars Investigations?”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised; my dad is very good at what he does.”

“Oh, I wasn’t disparaging the... _efficacy_ that is Keith Mars; I’m asking, why not a firm in Colorado?”

“She didn’t want her boss to find out. If the charity’s a scam, not only will she lose her job, but she’ll be blacklisted. She remembered my dad from his investigation into...”

“Aaron’s stalker,” Logan finished her sentence. “And why should I care about _Deb’s_ future job prospects?”

“I’m not asking you to help HER; I’m asking you to help ME.” Logan gave her a non-committal, _hmm_ , and tapped his wrist like her time was running out. Veronica pushed away her plate, started to stand, changed her mind. She HATED needing him, but she did. “Dad went undercover as a member of the staff; he’s playing Santa Claus at the party, and—”

Logan smirked. “So in essence you’re investigating the case of the missing Santa?”

“I’m GLAD you’re finding this so amusing.”

Something in her tone, wiped the smirk from his face. “I’m sorry, Veronica; finish your story.”

“He checked in with me on Tuesday night, but I haven’t heard from him since.”

“That’s only two days”—Logan looked at the clock above the bookshelves—“Not even. Maybe he’s busy chasing down a lead or--”

“No, we had an arranged check in time; he would call me every night at six while the staff was eating dinner, and he missed last night’s call.”

“Maybe he couldn’t get a signal or his phone died?”

Veronica shook her head. “He has a SAT phone WITH a tracking feature AND global positioning. Even if he couldn’t call me, I’d be able to track his location, and I can’t. Someone disabled it, Logan.”

“Have you called the police?” She just stared at him, and he held out his hands. “What? That ‘waiting-period to file a missing person’s report’ thing is only a Hollywood myth.”

“I know, but I don’t have any proof of foul play, or even that he’s in trouble - other than my instincts, and they’re telling me something’s wrong.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to help you with this?”

“Did you miss the part about it being a COUPLES retreat? I need you to come with me, pretend to be my boy—”

“Husband,” Logan interrupted. “Your better half, the old ball and chain.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Fine, whatever; we leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, dear.” Picking up his pizza, he folded it, and took a healthy bite. “See, we’re already playing our roles to perfection. You, the demanding, nagging wife, and me, the henpecked, lazy husband.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Just out of curiosity- what was your backup plan? You must’ve had one when you stormed off all indignant-like.”

“To find another bored rich 09er to go with me.” He raised an eyebrow, waited for her to elaborate. “I was going to ask Dick.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think even YOUR acting skills are that great.”

“Well, we’ll never know.” She slid off the stool. “Our flight leaves at six a.m. so I’ll pick you up at four.”

“Pretty sure of yourself there, Mars, making flight reservations in ADVANCE.” He tossed his pizza crust in the trash. “Going to ask Dick,” he scoffed under his breath.

“Just be ready when I get here.” She shouldered her purse. “We have a layover in Phoenix, but we’ll get to the resort in time for the welcome lunch at noon.”

“Layover? God, I hope it’s not COACH.”


	2. Friday, December 21, 2007

Of course, it was coach and she could barely afford THOSE last-minute tickets - never mind, first class. Not that it mattered. Logan upgraded them at the gate and then spent the entire flight asleep with his headphones on. He didn’t talk to her when they landed in Phoenix either, except to say he was going to shop. When he’d returned it was with a Brooks Brothers bag, coffee, and a book—The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo—which he’d read for the second leg of their trip.

Veronica was beginning to doubt this ‘married couple’ plan. If Logan couldn’t even TALK to her, how were they going to pull off wedded bliss? Maybe they’d have to play this trip as a last-ditch effort to save their we-got-married-too-young relationship?

She glared at the back of his head, willing him to say something. Sprawled across the cab’s leather seat, his face was turned to the window, ostensibly watching the picturesque scenery, but really to avoid conversation. She huffed, and turned away. The landscape wasn’t THAT interesting - snow, mountains, trees, ski lifts. His silence was driving her crazy.

They turned off the main road and through a set of stacked-stone columns. A discreet sign reading The Glen was tucked into a copse of aspen trees. The cab climbed the winding road, driving through the resort’s shopping village.

Cobblestone sidewalks, gas lamp posts, and red brick buildings made the swanky, high-end stores seem quaint. But there was very little foot traffic and most of the shops seemed closed. Veronica counted three antique stores, a Caswell-Massey, Prada, two jewelry stores, and an art gallery.

“Why so quiet?” Logan asked, enfolding her hand in his.

Veronica started at both the contact and the sound of his voice. “ME? Normally I can’t get you to shut up, but you’ve been downright laconic since I pick— since we left the house.”

He smiled at her almost slip. “I’m sorry, honey; was I not paying enough attention to you? I’ll remedy that immediately - don’t want my little lovebug to feel neglected.” Logan kissed her fingers and settled their joined hands in his lap.

Her mouth opened and closed. The fawning spouse routine might actually be WORSE than his reticence. But she couldn’t call him on it because the driver was watching them in the rearview. Clenching her jaw, she rested her head on his arm, and felt his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

The exterior of the main building resembled your typical mountain chalet - rough-hewn timber construction, peaked roof, and large walls of glass. But to avoid being a total cliche, they’d blended modern elements to the design. The windows were steel-framed and the lines were simple. Their cab approached the hotel and joined the queue of cars under the porte-cochère.

She clicked open the door, attempted to get out, but Logan squeezed her hand, murmured, “Wait.”

Lifting his hips from the seat, he withdrew his wallet from the front pocket of his jeans, and passed some bills to the driver. While he was busy counting, Logan took another item from his wallet. A ring, which he slid on her finger.

Veronica blinked at the gemstone. A cushion-cut, blue sapphire set in a platinum band with tapered, diamond baguettes on either side- it had to be worth a small fortune. She frowned at him, but he only kissed her nose, and then pressed his lips to her ear. “Wife, remember?”

“But—”

“And it matches your eyes.”

Without waiting for a response, he bounded from the car, circled the trunk, and held open her door. Once she was standing next to him, he draped an arm around her waist, hand on her hip, and ushered her inside, leaving the valet to attend their bags.

Questioning Logan’s acting ability was a mistake; he put on quite a show for the front desk clerk. Holding Veronica close to his chest, he tucked her under his chin to kiss her temple and nuzzle her neck. “Excited for our first Christmas together, lovebug?”

“Thrilled,” she said, dryly, bringing the heel of her boot down on his instep. It had no effect, except to make Logan tighten his hold around her middle.

The clerk smiled at them. “First Christmas? Are you newlyweds?”

“How could you tell?” Logan asked with a grin, tossing his black Amex on the counter to pay for the room and incidentals. He didn’t even bat an eye at the outrageous price, completely unconcerned with anything but his new ‘wife’. “Maybe we should skip lunch, lovebug”—he nibbled Veronica’s ear—“and, uh, _relax_ in our room.”

His warm breath caressed her skin, making her squirm uncomfortably. She elbowed his ribs, and he finally released her. Snatching the room keys and thick welcome package from the counter, she marched toward the elevators.

They had the car to themselves. Logan leaned on the handrail. “I thought you were good at this undercover stuff? If you want people to believe we’re married and in love, you need to stop being so… prickly.”

“Prick… that’s a PERFECT word choice.” Logan tsked at her, and she whirled around. “Did you have to be so hammy?”

“I AM an Echolls, darling.”

Veronica folded her arms over her chest. “Well, quit it, and STOP calling me lovebug.”

“Pumpkin? Buttercup? Cuddle Muffin?” He asked with the lazy drawl that got under her skin.

She growled, raising her eyes to the lighted floor numbers. _You can do this, Veronica. It’s only five days, less if you can find your dad right away, and then… What?_ She risked a quick glance over her shoulder at Logan. Still leaning and looking way too damn good in his black Henley and worn jeans. Did she want to resume their radio silence? Label him someone she used to know and relegate him to the past?

The doors slid open, and she stalked down the hall in the wrong direction. “It’s this way, snookums.”

“Logan, I’m warning you, one more pet name and—”

“See? Prickly... Hmm”—he tapped his finger against his chin—“maybe I should call you my little hedgehog.”

She pressed the tip of her tongue to the back of her teeth, took a deep breath, counted, and slowly exhaled. Pushing past him, she shoved the keycard in the lock, and opened the door.

Suite was a bit of a misnomer, because it was all one room. A mission-style bed made of barnwood took centerstage and matched the beams running along the ceiling. But that’s where the rustic ended. The gas log fireplace across from the bed was clad in black slate and a flat panel television was inset in the wall above. Dovetail-gray club chairs and a tuxedo-style sofa were grouped together in a sitting alcove in front of glass doors leading to a balcony. 

Veronica crossed the wool carpet to check behind the other two doors—a closet and bathroom—and frowned. “There’s only one bed.”

“Well, we ARE married.” He flopped onto the mattress and stretched; the movement tugging up his shirt to expose v-cut abs… like this was some winter photoshoot for Men’s Fitness, or flipping PLAYGIRL. “Newlyweds, in fact. Why would we need two beds?” He patted the space next to him - an invitation.

She tore her eyes away, focused on the headboard, and tossed both her purse and the welcome kit onto the comforter. “You can take the couch.”

Lifting his head, chin to chest, to see her, he said, “I don’t think so. I’m here out of the goodness of my heart, AND I’m the one who paid for the room - YOU should take the sofa.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

“Hey, I’m all about equality.” A knock interrupted whatever she was about to say, and Logan waved his arm at the door. “I’m even going to let you answer that - don’t forget to tip well.” He plucked the festive gold-and-green folder from the duvet, rolled onto his stomach, and flipped it open.

Veronica contemplated smothering him with one of the goosedown pillows, remembered Colorado had the death penalty, and let the valet in with their luggage. When he was gone, she said, “Once we solve the case and get paid for our services, Mars Investigations will reimburse you for the trip.”

“Good to know, but I’m still not giving up the bed.” He glanced up from the papers spread in front of him. “You’re always welcome to join me, of course.”

“No thanks.” Returning to the closet, she took down the extra blanket and pillow from its top shelf, and put them on the sofa. “Let’s go downstairs for the lunch; I can find Debbie, and see if she knows anything about my dad.”

“Too soon; I have a reputation to uphold, and three minutes is not enough time to spend ravishing my wife. In fact”—his gaze raked over her with cool appraisal—”could you muss up your hair a bit and rumple your clothes? Maybe misbutton the shirt?”

Not waiting to see if she complied with his request, he ducked his head, resumed reading. She toyed with the top button of her blouse. Logan was having a grand old time trying to rile her, and she was letting him. This was an undercover assignment, nothing more. If he could remain cool and unaffected by this ruse, so could she.

Flopping back on the sofa, she winced at the hardness of the cushions, and stared at the ceiling. There was no point trying to best Logan at his game—he was a master at the art of frustrating her—she just needed to change the rules.

“Oh goodie, tonight after dinner, we’re supposed to go caroling in the village, and tomorrow there’s tree decorating and a sleigh ride to see Christmas lights - who planned this retreat? Norman Rockwell?”

“What are you reading?” She asked, sitting up and swinging her legs to the floor. “You know what? Never mind, don’t care. I’m going downstairs to start investigating. The sooner I find my dad, the sooner we can go home.”

Kneeling on the floor, she unzipped her suitcase, pulled out a pair of khaki cargo pants, a black cashmere sweater, and her Woolrich hiking boots. Stripping off her clothes, she changed, and started loading her pockets with the things she’d need - her SAT phone, lockpicks, a flashlight, pocketknife, and energy bars.

“Whoa, slow down there Rambo. This isn’t exactly the tundra; it’s a five-star, deluxe—” 

“Are you coming, or not?”

“Sure you don’t want to apply some camouflage paint first?” He asked, gathering up the papers and stuffing them in the folder. “Night vision? Extra ammo?”

Veronica left him alone with his quips, and walked to the elevator, formulating a plan. Debbie, first. She’d considered keeping her identity a secret from the woman, but it would be tricky. Debbie would definitely recognize Logan, and from there, it was a short deductive leap to Veronica. Besides, she’d need Debbie’s help constructing a timeline of Keith’s activities the day he went missing.

The resort was just shy of thirty acres with various outbuildings and a MOUNTAIN - there was no way she could search the entire property on her own. And that was provided Keith was still on the grounds. He could be anywhere in Aspen. Hell, anywhere, period.

Logan timed his arrival in sync with the elevator, taking her hand in his and lacing their fingers together. As if he could read her troubling thoughts, he gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, digging the unfamiliar platinum band into her skin.

Veronica looked at their joined hands and the glittering sapphire. “Where’d you get the ring?”

“It was my mother’s.” He shrugged. “I finally went through the storage unit she had and emptied her safe deposit box.” The casual tone and relaxed posture were in direct contradiction to the sharp sadness in his eyes.

Going through his mother’s things must’ve been hard and she sincerely hoped he didn’t do it alone, but he probably had. Too personal an experience for Logan to share with anyone. Except maybe her, and she was off doing… normal.

“Why’d you leave Hearst?”

“I decided to… hey wait, that sounds like a personal question.” Turning to face her, he leaned forward, placing a hand on the wall next to her head. “Are we getting _intimate_ now, Veronica?” His mouth was dangerously close to hers; she licked her bottom lip, and watched his gaze darken. “Because, if so, I’d much rather do it—”

“In our room?” She asked with an innocent head tilt, sliding her hands up his chest to wrap her arms around his neck. Logan blinked, clearly unaware they’d arrived in the lobby, and were entertaining a crowd. Standing on her toes, she closed the distance, and gave his mouth a quick peck.

Before he could react, she ducked beneath his arm and skittered away. His recovery time was fast, chasing her from the elevator and snaking an arm around her waist. He pulled her to his side. “Don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned, _lovebug_ ,” he whispered sotto voce, guiding her toward The Terrace Room.

Large plate-glass windows bathed the room in natural light, and the wood-burning fireplace added a touch of warmth. Round tables were covered with white linens and fresh-cut spring flowers. It was ALMOST enough to make you forget the snow and the twenty-eight degree weather.

Finding Debbie wasn’t difficult; she was at the table with the seating cards. Even thinner than her trophy wife days, her brown hair was cut in a short, beveled bob, and her nose looked different—narrower bridge, upturned tip—probably thanks to the same plastic surgeon she used for her breast implants.

Her smile faltered when she spotted them. “Logan Echolls, it’s nice to, uh…” She belatedly realized friendly was the wrong way to go and limply ended her sentence with, “Welcome to The Glen.” Rapid blinking as she lowered her gaze to the table in search of their seating card.

“Thanks, _Deb_.” Logan plucked the small, ivory rectangle from the table, and tucked it in his pocket. “Have you met my wife, Veronica?”

“Wife?” More deer-in-headlights blinking. “I didn’t realize… it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Instead of returning the pleasantry, Veronica lowered her voice and asked, “Is there some place we can talk, privately?” Debbie frowned, directed a pointed look at the line growing behind them, and shook her head. Undeterred, Veronica leaned across the table to add, “It’s about my father, Keith Mars.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “You’re—”

“Famished,” Logan finished Debbie’s sentence before she could blow their cover. “We’re holding up the line, lovebug. She’ll come join us when she’s done- right, Deb?”

The woman’s head bobbed up and down. “It should only take a few minutes.”

Before Veronica could protest the delay, Logan linked their fingers together, and tugged her toward their table.

It was a prime location—right near the fire, center of the room—and not at all likely they, with their last-minute reservations, would be seated here. Folding her arms over her chest, she turned to face him, blocking his path. “Let me see that card.”

“Always so suspicious. Don’t you ever get tired of being cynical?” Veronica ignored the jibe, holding out her hand, palm up, waiting for him to turn over the placard. Logan smirked. “If you want it, you’ll have to get it yourself.”

She eyed the front of his jeans- his confidence that she wouldn’t do it, irked her. She stuck her fingers in his pocket, and he used her proximity to wind an arm around her waist, ducking his head for a kiss.

“Aren’t you two just adorable!” A voice behind them trilled. “Remember when we were like that, honey?”

Logan pulled back, planted another kiss, this time on her nose, and smiled over Veronica’s shoulder at the woman. “We’re newlyweds.”

“That’s so sweet. How long have you been married?”

“Six months,” Veronica answered, faking a bright smile and doing an about face. “I had my heart set on being a June bride.”

“And she was lovely.” Logan draped an arm over her shoulder, kissed her temple. “I’m a very lucky man.”

The woman—a slight, middle-aged redhead—practically beamed at him. “I’m Millie and this big lug is Geoff.” She squeezed the arm of the linebacker standing next to her, and then asked Logan, “Are we at the same table?”

_Please say no, please say no_. Dashing Veronica’s hopes, Logan pointed at their seats, and Millie clapped her hands together in glee. _Great_.

There was already another couple standing by the table. The man, tall with an athletic-build and the ruddy complexion you get from spending lots of time outdoors; and the woman, slender with waves of chestnut curls, high cheekbones, and a tiny beauty mark above her lip.

Millie headed straight for them. “We’re Millie and Geoff Barrington and this is”—she looked expectantly at Logan, who graciously supplied their names—“They’re newlyweds, isn’t that wonderful?” 

The brunette arched one delicate eyebrow as if to ask, _is she for real?,_ and then held out her hand. “I’m—”

“Someone who needs no introduction,” Logan said, removing his arm from Veronica’s shoulder in order to enfold the brunette’s hand in both of his. “You’re Petra Crawford.”

Veronica’s doubts about the seating arrangements, doubled. This was the same woman who stared at her from the inside of Logan’s locker all of junior year - posed in a wet and VERY thin, red swimsuit.

“Petra Landros, now.” She smiled at him, and Veronica wondered if Logan would trip over his own tongue in his rush to get closer to the former underwear model. Petra gestured to the ruddy-faced man. “This is my husband, Rafe.”

Veronica took a step back to avoid all the pleasant, getting-to-know-each-other handshakes, and bumped into a mound of doughy flesh.

“Easy there, little lady.” The man’s sausage fingers landed on her shoulders, ostensibly to keep her from falling, but really to move her out of his way. “Rafe Landros, good to see you again, my friend.” He pronounced Rafe as Ralph, making Landros wince, and then pumped the man’s hand in an overeager shake. “Jim Gallagher,” he announced to… well, everyone, his voice was so loud. “I’m the reason for this season.” He laughed at his own not-funny joke. “Or at least this party, anyway.”

Jim Gallagher. Veronica recognized the name. He was the CEO of the suspect charity - Better Tomorrow... _a better tomorrow starts today_. She watched him circle around the table, enveloping Millie in a bear hug, and then giving Geoff another of his enthusiastic handshakes. “Thanks for hosting this big to-do; it’s gonna really help the kids.”

_Barrington_. Of course! Millie and Geoff _Barrington_. The owners of The Glen. Veronica mentally smacked herself for not paying attention sooner.

“I’m so sorry,” Debbie’s apology floated across the room. “I don’t know where your place card went”—her voice got louder as she drew closer—“But I’ve put you over…” She quickly sized up the full table. “There,” Debbie waved toward two empty chairs in the far corner. “I thought you’d be more comfortable away from the draft of the patio doors,” she said, escorting the disgruntled couple to the equivalent of bleacher seats.

Logan sidled up next to Veronica with a shit-eating grin. “See, I told you we were at the right table, pumpkin.”

“You stole their card.” It was half-accusation, half-compliment.

“So you could grill your suspects.”

“More like so you could sit next to Miss December.”

“Miss JULY,” he corrected, tapping her nose. “And you’re still cute when you’re jealous.”

Veronica rolled her eyes, and opened her mouth to contradict him, but was stopped by Jim’s booming voice. “And here’s my patient-as-a-saint wife, Fran. Come here, honey, meet all these nice folks.”

“If this guy runs a legit charity, I’m going to eat that mistletoe,” Veronica muttered loud enough for only Logan to hear.

“What a waste of good mistletoe.” He stroked his knuckles down the curve of her cheek. “I don’t know, sugarplum; I think he’s kind of charming, in that down-home, salt-of-the-earth way.”

“Sure you do… and would you quit touching me?” To emphasize her request, Veronica grabbed the fingers absently tracing patterns along her collarbone, pried them from her skin, and gave them a crushing squeeze.

“So how’s the hotel business treatin’ you, Ralph?” Jim asked, taking the seat furthest from the fire. His wife, Saint Fran, whispered something in his ear. “Er, Rafe.”

“It’s good,” Rafe replied with a pained smile, holding out the chair next to Logan for Petra.

“Own any resorts, like Geoff here?”

This was going to be a long lunch. Veronica searched the room for Debbie, spotted her behind a potted palm talking to a waiter. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…” She started to rise, realized all heads had turned to hear her reason for leaving. “Uh, I need to have a word with our waiter.”

“About what, dear?” This from Millie. Either because she was a good hotel owner, worried there was a problem, or because she was just plain nosy, Veronica couldn’t be sure.

“Um…” She glanced at Logan. “Allergies. My husband’s allergic to shellfish.”

“See, didn’t I tell you? Luckiest guy in the world to have such a devoted wife always looking after me.” Logan raised his face and puckered his lips, a silent request for a kiss. Veronica was going to kill him the minute this case was over, but for now, she gave him a peck. “I’ll miss you every second you’re gone, lovebug.”

She gritted her teeth. “I’m sure Petra will keep you company.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” Petra said, patting his arm. Veronica’s gaze narrowed at the perfectly-manicured fingers that lingered on Logan’s wrist a little too long for her liking. “So Logan, do you ski?”

He swiveled in his seat, turning his back on Veronica to give Petra his full attention. Clenching her hands at her sides, Veronica spun around, and stalked off in the middle of their slope comparisons - Klosters versus Gstaad... St. Moritz, Courchevel.

Debbie was still conferring with the waiter, “—the tables in the hall.” She glanced up from her clipboard as Veronica approached. “We’ll go over the rest later,” she said, handing over the notes.

Veronica remembered to mention Logan’s allergies to the waiter before he departed—a trip to the emergency room for anaphylaxis wasn’t on the agenda—and then repeated her request for a private place to talk. Debbie led her through the kitchen to a storage area and shut the door behind them.

Without preamble she said, “I don’t know what happened to your father.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Debbie tapped a nail to her chin. “Wednesday morning?” She nodded. “Yes, he was here for the staff breakfast meeting, and then he was gone.”

“Did he say anything to you before he left? Tell you where he was going?”

“No.” She frowned. “We talked Tuesday night; he wanted to know where we were keeping the auction items.” Veronica stared at her, waiting for the answer to the obvious question. It took Debbie a second. “Some of the items are too big to be onsite, but the smaller ones are locked in the conference center, and Geoff hired round-the-clock security.”

“He didn’t tell you why he wanted to see them?” Debbie shook her head. “Is his rental car still here?”

“I… I didn’t think to look.”

“What about his room? Are his things still there?”

“I don’t know.”

Veronica asked where the staff rooms were located—building J across from the parking lot—and got directions to the conference center. Two full days since anyone had seen Keith. But at least she had a place to start looking. She thanked Debbie and returned to the Terrace Room and Logan.

He was right in the middle of telling Petra he planned to bid on the Patek Philippe 1936 Pilot watch in Monday’s auction. She smiled. “Rafe was looking at that too.”

“I was,” Rafe agreed. “Along with the Cullinan blue diamond ring.” He turned to his left. “Say Geoff, I don’t suppose you’d give us a sneak peek of the items before Monday?”

“I would love to, but I can’t.” Geoff rolled his large shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “Insurance reasons- I’m sure you understand.”

Veronica slipped into her chair, unnoticed by everyone, but Logan. “You were gone for a long time - everything okay?”

It was the perfect opening for her excuse. “Actually, I’m not feeling very well.” She touched her forehead. “I think I should go back to the room and lie down.”

“That’s too bad,” Petra said. “We were all going to go skiing after lunch.”

Logan started to rise. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay.” Veronica placed her palm on his chest. “Have lunch, go skiing - I don’t want to ruin your fun.”

“It won’t be any fun without you.” He took her hand from his chest, kissed her fingers. “But I did promise Millie we’d join everyone for caroling tonight.”

“Oh, you simply MUST,” Millie chimed in. “Logan says you have the voice of an angel.”

Veronica’s eye twitched. “Sounds great.”

**XXXXX**

It did not sound great. She was cold and wet and tired and the LAST thing she wanted to do was go Christmas caroling with a bunch of snooty rich people. Especially the one who couldn’t be bothered to help her search for Keith.

_“But it’s snowing outside, Veronica,”_ she muttered, trudging through the avalanche of snow surrounding the conference center.

The non-plowed paths to and from the auction site were more of a deterrent than the security guard, who was stationed just inside the plate-glass doors with a thermos and a television. He’d spotted her almost immediately—a parka-wearing, bright-red dot in the midst of a white landscape—and kept an eye on her as she strolled, slipped, CURSED, her way past the building.

She’d found Keith’s rental car in the parking lot. It had taken all of five minutes to pick the door lock and search the Trailblazer, but the only things she’d found were the rental agreement from Avis and the car’s operating manual. Her subsequent search of Keith’s room had yielded the same dismal results - no notes on the case, and no leads to his whereabouts. The conference center had been her last hope, but between the treacherous terrain and the semi-observant guard, she couldn’t even get close.

Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, and she achieved air before landing backward on a mound of snow. Veronica stared at the darkening, purple sky as icy flakes pelted her face, and sincerely hoped Logan had gotten a rash from the hot oil they used during his in-room, Swedish massage. Rolling onto her stomach, she pushed up on her knees and slowly stood, careful to avoid a repeat performance of her fall.

She trekked along the south side of the resort, using its exterior wall as a handhold, and made her way to the back door. It was closer to the elevators, which allowed her to avoid the lobby, and decreased her chance of being spotted by any of the other guests. She ducked into the empty car, and rode up to their floor, adding ‘muscle sprain’ and ‘male masseuse’ to the list of ills she hoped befell Logan in her absence.

Using her teeth, she pulled off her glove, found the key card, and let herself into the room. A fire blazed on the hearth, and a room service cart with a steaming bowl of tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwich, and large mug of hot chocolate, waited next to the bed.

“Ah, look who’s back- the intrepid detective.” Logan was leaning in the open bathroom doorway, freshly showered and shaved, a towel slung low around his hips. “Any luck finding Keith and ending this charade?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut— _he definitely didn’t get a rash_ —and turned her face toward the fire.

“Well then, you should eat up and change.” He pointed his hairbrush at the food. “We don’t want to be late for tonight’s festivities.”

“I’m not going.” Veronica stripped off her parka, hat, and scarf, and sat on the edge of the mattress to remove her boots. “You and Petra can make beautiful music together, without me.” She scooched across the bed to the cart, picked up her sandwich and settled against the headboard to eat.

“Millie will be terribly disappointed.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Maybe.” Turning back to the mirror, he picked up his American Crew styling gel, squeezed a dollop on the heel of his hand, and started working it through his hair. “But if you don’t come with me, I’m telling her my lovebug has a bun in the oven, and that’s why you’re not feeling well.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, fixing him with a baleful stare. His answering smirk said he would and he’d enjoy recounting the story to every one of the carolers. “Fine.” Veronica slapped her mug down with a loud _thunk_. “I’ll go, but no pet names, and you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

“If that’s what you really want...” Logan shrugged, toeing the bathroom door closed to finish his primping for Petra in private. 

Rolling onto her stomach, Veronica buried her face in the pillow and growled, kicking the mattress in frustration. What she wanted was to find her father and go home. And maybe for Logan to stop being so… “ _Grrr!”_ She gave the bed another solid kick, and got up.

She shed her clothes. In between bites of sandwich and spoons of soup, she redressed in a pair of warm thermals, jeans, and a sweater. She doubled up on socks before putting on her boots, and got a different pair of gloves—dry ones—from her suitcase. “If you don’t hurry up, I’m going downstairs without you.”

“Now you’re eager?”

“To get this over with.” She shrugged into her coat. “I didn’t think rich people actually WENT caroling; I thought they HIRED singers to entertain and impress their guests.”

“Sometimes we like to see how the little people live.” The bathroom door popped open, and he walked out in his Frye boots, black jeans, and cashmere sweater; his hair perfectly-styled to look ‘natural’ and effortless. “But I seriously doubt this excursion will resemble anything you’re used to.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll see.”

It started in the lobby. Debbie was handing each couple a designer tote filled with swag. A thermos of hot chocolate, along with an Asprey sterling silver flask- _‘Kahlua! In case you like your cocoa with a kick’_ read the tag around its cap. Jo Malone lip conditioner; hand warmers, a flashlight; candles, with a Zippo lighter, natch; a tin of Neiman Marcus cookies; and, of course, a freakin’ SCROLL of lyrics for the songs they’d be singing.

“But wait, there’s more,” Logan whispered near her ear in perfect imitation of an infomercial announcer. Forgetting their deal, he took her hand for the walk outside.

She stopped him right by the doors, grabbing a fistful of cashmere and pulling him a few steps closer to the large Christmas tree in front of the fire. “Pretend to kiss me,” she said, leaning against the wall and raising her face. Millie and Geoff were standing by the stone mantle and— from their expressions—they were not having a pleasant conversation; Veronica wanted to hear what they were saying.

Logan lowered his head, pressed his cheek to hers, and gently nipped her earlobe. Skipping the PRETEND part of her request, he feathered delicate kisses down the column of her neck. “Veronica, I—”

“Ssh,” she silenced him, and glanced over his shoulder at Millie’s face. Her eyes were clouded, a deep crease between her brows, and sadness tugged the corners of her mouth downward.

“Let it go, Mill; it’s none of your business,” Geoff hissed.

“YOU are my business.”

Millie clutched his arm, and he shrugged her off. “Not anymore.” Geoff stalked away, leaving her open-mouthed, stunned. Veronica buried her face in the lining of Logan’s shearling jacket so Millie wouldn’t catch her watching.

The coat smelled like him. His aftershave—warm and woodsy—and his skin, clean like the air after it rained. Veronica closed her eyes. This was the scent of late night kisses. Of afternoons in bed, bodies spent and curled around each other, languid and relaxed. Tangled sheets. Tossed clothes.

“There you are; I was afraid I’d have to go caroling alone, since Rafe decided it was too quaint for him.” Petra’s long legs carried her to their side. “He told me to fa-la-la-la without him.”

Logan stepped back, and Veronica used the space to duck under his arm- put some distance between them. “We should probably be going anyway, before Debbie”—she jutted her chin toward the event organizer, who was unsuccessfully trying to herd the socializing couples through the front door—“has a breakdown.”

“She’s out of her depth,” Petra said, turning her head to watch Debbie. “I think this might be her first job...ever, and rumor has it, she’s not likely to have it for long.” She dropped her voice. “Geoff was complaining about her performance over lunch.”

“Was he?” Veronica threaded her arm through Logan’s. “What’s his issue?”

Petra shrugged an elegant shoulder, took the elbow Logan offered, and walked outside with them.

Three drivers stood next to black cars that were luxury limo/SUV hybrids with the Range Rover brand across their hoods. Simple vans—or, heaven forbid, BUSES—were obviously too déclassé for caroling. Logan started for the last one in line, but Veronica held him back. If she had to suffer through this outing, she was going to make it worthwhile.

They didn’t have to wait long. Millie bustled through the doors, fake smile in place, with a group of guests in tow. “Four couples in each,” she announced, directing people to the waiting cars. The vehicle on the end was filled when Jim and Fran exited the hotel. “You’re going to sit with me,” Millie said, waving them forward. “In the lead car.”

That was Veronica’s cue. She let go of Logan’s arm, trusting him to follow, and climbed in behind the Gallaghers. Jim and Fran duck-walked their way to the two seats up front near the privacy screen. With a loud _oof_ , Jim flopped onto the gray leather. “This bar’s gonna come in handy after everyone has to listen to me sing!”

Veronica smiled at him and settled on the bench across from said bar.

“Oh shush,” Fran admonished, patting his arm. She looked at Veronica. “Jim’s a wonderful singer - performs with the church choir every Sunday.”

A regular church goer, who sings in the choir, has a saintly wife, and is also the founder of a charity for kids? Christmas might be the time of miracles, but that was stretching credibility. _Maybe Logan’s right and I AM too cynical?_ She immediately dismissed the thought. “Did the church help you start Better Tomorrow?”

“No, but they fund a lot of our afterschool programs.” Jim launched into a canned speech of how he grew up poor, found some success, and then wanted to give back to his community. Veronica feigned interest, ignoring the actual words in favor of watching his body language. He seemed sincere, but was it an act?

She glanced at Logan. Years of living with Aaron had left him with an uncanny ability to know when someone was a fraud; their public image concealing a darker private truth. But he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. Turned in his seat to face Petra, they were discussing surfing. Correction, PETRA was talking about learning to surf, Logan was just FLIRTING - soft smiles, tilted head, intense eye contact.

Veronica jabbed her fingernail into the palm of his hand. He didn’t even flinch. But he did swivel his head in her direction; a knowing smirk on his face. “Everything okay, lovebug?”

“Peachy.”

Deb and Millie were the last additions to their limo group. Millie set a box of silver hand bells on the seat between them, and closed the car door.

“Isn’t Geoff coming?” Debbie asked, worry lines etched in her forehead. If Petra was right about the state of her job, the boss bowing out of her planned event was not a good sign. But Veronica suspected it had more to do with marital woes than a distaste for Christmas music.

“No,” she snapped, making Debbie shrink in her seat. To cushion the terse reply, Millie added, “He’s, uh… taking everyone who didn’t want to carol out on the snowmobiles.”

Snowmobiles? Veronica’s ears perked. One of those would come in handy for a search of the grounds. “That sounds like fun.” Placing her hand possessively on Logan’s thigh, she angled her head to gaze up at him, fake-adoring. “Maybe we can do that tomorrow, honey?”

“Anything you want.” He kissed her nose, stroking his fingers over her forehead, and tucking a strand of hair beneath her hat. Despite the smile, his eyes were solemn as if he was troubled. Maybe the playacting was getting to him too? Ridiculous. She scoffed at the idea, promptly discarding it.

They exited the resort grounds, driving into town along Main Street. When they passed the red-brick Hotel Jerome they turned north into the neighborhood of West End. It was charming. Veronica craned her neck to stare through the window at the quiet, tree-lined streets of small miner’s cottages and classic Victorians, all blanketed with a thick coating of snow.

Get rid of the cars, add cobblestones, and they could be inside a Dickens story. All she needed was a corset and crinoline instead of her North Face jacket. When the limo stopped, she pulled her gloves back on, and tightened the scarf around her neck before climbing out behind Logan.

The lure of dashing through the snow on high-powered sleds had dwindled their numbers. Veronica did a head count—eighteen people, more women than men—while Millie handed out bells, and Debbie checked her ubiquitous clipboard.

Their first house was a green-and-white Victorian with fish scale siding and a wraparound porch. Debbie rang the bell while they gathered on the porch and stairs, removing their lyric scrolls from the gift bag.

“A little too on the nose, dontcha think?” Logan murmured close to her ear, brandishing the sheet music. “Poor _Deb_ clearly lacks imagination.”

Veronica silently agreed with him, but sang anway. _Caroling, caroling now we go. Christmas bells are ringing_. Fran wasn’t lying; Jim did have a great voice—a dramatic baritone, full and powerful—and she was no slouch either, harmonizing with her warm contralto.

_Caroling, caroling through the snow_. Veronica glanced at her fellow carolers. Everyone’s lips were moving, but only about half were actually singing. She looked at Logan, who wasn’t even bothering to pretend. “Talk about literal, Mister Silent Night - why aren’t you singing?”

He shrugged. _Ding, dong, ding, dong. Christmas bells are ringing_.

They transitioned from Nat King Cole to Jingle Bell Rock. “Ah, too bad you’re not wearing black high-heeled boots and a short little Santa skirt.” Logan smirked. “That would be _so_ fetch.”

Veronica elbowed his rib and whispered, “Stop trying to make fetch happen, Gretchen.”

Snaking an arm around her waist, his hand landed on her ass. “I’d like to mix and a’mingle with you.”

“Wrong girl, Petra’s on your other side.”

His smirk transformed to a smile, and he kissed her temple, pulling her closer. She stiffened in his embrace, and tried to focus on the lyrics to the next song. _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_ ; _let your heart be light_.

It was only pretend. A cover story to fool the resort guests so she could find her missing father. But it was easy to forget. Veronica rested her head on Logan, and snuggled into his side. Especially when he was flirting and touching and being HER Logan. _Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore._

He took her gloved hand in his, and sang the next line of the carol. “Faithful friends who are dear to us—” With a start, Veronica realized she’d never heard him sing before. Which was a shame. His voice was warm with the bright full timbre of a lyric tenor. “—Gather near to us once more.”

Lifting her head, she raised her face to stare at him, and he cupped her cheek. One wool-clad thumb stroked her skin as he serenaded her with the last line. “And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”


	3. Saturday, December 22, 2007 (Day)

Veronica’s feelings of peace on earth and good will toward men— _well, one particular man_ —lasted only until they’d returned to the resort after caroling last night.

First, Logan had ignored her, making plans with Petra to meet her and Rafe for some early morning skiing. And when Veronica had complained, _“Thanks for asking me.”_ Logan had only shrugged and said, _“You don’t ski.”_

Then, he’d actually made her sleep on the hard couch, without so much as a half-hearted OFFER of the bed. He’d just stripped down to his boxers, sprawled across the mattress, and hogged all the pillows. _“Night Veronica.”_

And, finally, this morning he’d made so much noise getting ready for his ski DATE with Petra —whistling in the shower and blow drying his hair—he’d woken Veronica before sunrise.

At least it gave her an early start. She finished dressing, put her bedding back in the closet, and headed downstairs in search of breakfast and information. Really what she needed was a map of the resort. She detoured to the front desk. The request earned her a frown from the clerk. “One was included in your welcome package.”

Veronica added another black mark to Logan’s name. He could have TOLD her there was a map YESTERDAY before she went traipsing around, blind. “Do you have another one? My husband lost ours.”

Misunderstanding, the clerk handed Veronica an entire green-and-gold kit. She mumbled a thanks and walked away. Opening the folder, she flipped past the welcome letter, daily itinerary, and the ‘things to do in Aspen’ list. The last two items were the map she wanted, and a thermal-bound brochure of the auction items.

Veronica crossed the lobby to the fireplace and settled in one of the brown leather wingback chairs to read. The brochure was put together well. Each item was numbered and featured a color photo along with a description. In fine print it included the starting bid and estimated value.

She thumbed through it, noting the prices climbed with the page numbers. The last item—a Gulfstream G550—had an estimated value of $60 million dollars. _Can accommodate up to 19 passengers_. _Some seats can be converted to beds_. Veronica read the price again and grimaced. _Who are these people?_

Tucking the brochure back in the folder, she withdrew the map and unfolded it. Her options for breakfast were a boulangerie in the “village” shops by the resort entrance and two restaurants. One, Après-Ski— _apparently Debbie wasn’t the only one who lacked imagination_ —was detached from the main building and located by the trails. The other, Off-Piste, was connected to the lobby by a glassed-in breezeway. She headed that way.

Millie and Geoff were the only familiar faces in the restaurant, leading Veronica to believe Logan, Petra, and Rafe weren’t alone on their sunrise ski. She approached their table with a cheerful, “Good morning,”

“Veronica!” Millie chirped, flashing a grateful smile. “Would you like to join us?” Her eyes moved past Veronica. “And where’s that charming husband of yours?”

“On the slopes.” She waved toward the wall of windows.

“Oh, well I do hope he’s back in time for the tree decorating in the lounge!” Millie’s enthusiasm garnered a derisive grunt from Geoff; her smile dimmed. “It should be fun,” she tacked on without conviction.

“Logan pass up a chance to drink eggnog and hang tinsel? Not likely.” Veronica grinned. She’d make sure he was there. It could be his punishment for skiing with Petra _and_ for hoarding the resort map. She turned to Geoff. “We were thinking about taking the snowmobiles out later to explore. Can you show me—”

“They’re not for guest use.”

Millie frowned. “But you took the--”

With a silencing glare across the table, Geoff interrupted his wife. “They’re not for _unsupervised_ guest use.” He gave Veronica a tight smile. “There are places on the mountain that aren’t safe.”

_Was that a threat?_ Veronica’s gaze narrowed. “Aren’t there marked trails?” She pulled out the map. “I thought I saw--”

“A mistake. Those are _walking_ trails - Debbie should’ve made that clear on your _map._ ” He spit the last word through clenched teeth. “But it’s not exactly the first mistake she’s made this weekend.”

An awkward silence descended. “Uh…” Veronica backed away from the table. “I guess I’ll go get a headstart on the tree decorating then, and let you finish your breakfast.” With a nod at Millie, she turned on her heel and retreated from the restaurant.

Obviously Petra wasn’t exaggerating when she said Geoff was unhappy with Deb, but why? Sure, the weekend events were a little trite, but everyone seemed to be having fun, and Veronica hadn’t heard any complaints. So what was it? Was Geoff starting to have his doubts about the charity too? Did he learn something useful?

She reached the crossroads of the lobby. A right would bring her to the elevators. She could return to the room, order breakfast, and wait for Logan. Veronica made a left.

A thirty-foot Fraser fir tree greeted Veronica’s arrival in the lounge. Debbie was perched on an equally tall ladder, adding a mercury-glass and crystal star to the top of the tree. She barely glanced at Veronica. “Is it straight?”

“I thought we were decorating the tree?”

“Not the top branches- _no ladders for the guests, Debbie_.” Her impression of her boss came complete with a deep frown and wagging finger. Leaning away from the tree, she studied the star. “He doesn’t want to get sued if someone falls.” With a nod to herself, she descended the ladder and crossed to the tables set up on the other side of the fireplace.

Veronica joined her at the tables. Red and gold ornaments were nestled on beds of crinkle-shred inside wooden trays, and each tray was labeled with the name of a guest. There were also buckets of tiny silver bells, pine cones, and elaborate bows. Nary a popsicle reindeer in sight. Veronica shook her head. “Why do you think Better Tomorrow is a fake?”

“Veronica!” Deb hissed, eyes darting around the room to make sure they were still alone. “Jim and Fran will be here any minute.”

“Then you shouldn’t waste any time. What made you hire my father?”

“I don’t know, something just felt… off.” She scooped the remote from the corner of the table and aimed it at the tree. A multitude of tiny white lights clicked on, illuminating the green boughs to dazzling effect. With another click of the remote, soft instrumental Christmas music filled the room. “Jim seemed overly interested in the donations-- their worth, how much would go to the charity, if the resort was taking a cut.”

All of which sounded like legitimate concerns to Veronica. “ _Is_ the resort taking a cut?”

“We’ll keep a small percentage to cover our costs.” Deb picked up one of the ornament trays and returned to the ladder.

Costs? Veronica frowned. The exorbitant room rates weren’t enough? “Does Geoff have an office on the grounds?”

“Sure. It’s in the back of the hotel behind--” She stopped mid-climb, her foot poised over the next rung of the ladder. “Why?”

“Because my father is missing and if I don’t find him soon, I’m going to call the police and let _them_ ask the questions.”

The threat had the desired effect. Debbie abandoned the tree decorating, giving Veronica her full attention. She explained how to access the staff wing—through the door behind the front desk—and turned over her employee key card. “I’ll need it back before the end of the tree-trimming, or someone will notice I don’t have it.”

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Veronica slipped the card into her front pocket. “Do you know Jim and Fran’s room number?”

“They’re in the Benedict Suite.” The information meant nothing to Veronica; she waited for clarification. “The top floor,” Deb said, exasperated, like this should be obvious. “You know, the penthouse.”

Veronica didn’t bother to hold back the eye roll. “What about Millie and Geoff? Do they live on the resort grounds?”

“No… but they are staying here for the weekend.” Before Veronica could ask for their room number, Debbie supplied the information and added, “I don’t see how any of this is going to help you find Keith.”

She didn’t either, but it was the only thing she could do- conduct an investigation and hope she either found Keith, or something she could bring to the police. “And that’s why you’re the cruise director and not a detective.”

Approaching conversation kept Deb from responding. She smiled over Veronica’s shoulder at the new arrivals. “You look very festive,” she said, crossing the room to guide them toward the ornament table. Veronica glanced at the couple in the matching ugly Christmas sweaters and felt another eye roll coming on.

“Ah, there you are lovebug,” Logan called, striding past Debbie to reach Veronica. He was still in his ski pants, but he’d shed both his jacket and fleece. Veronica’s eyes roamed over the snug-fitting base layer, which molded itself to his chest. The fabric looked soft and touchable.

Her fingers twitched and she curled them into fists at her side. “Am I bugged?” She lifted first one leg, then the other, checking the bottom of her feet. “Did you plant a tracker inside my boots?”

“That’s more your style, not mine.” One arm snaked around her waist and he drew her closer. “But you know, that’s actually not a bad idea - we wouldn’t want you to go missing too.” She just glared at him until he dropped his arm and sighed. “The ever-helpful Millie told me where I could find you.”

“Was she still with Geoff?” Veronica peered past his arm to survey the room. More couples had arrived. She recognized some from last night’s caroling, but none were the people she wanted. A large punch bowl of eggnog had been set, with matching cups, atop the lid of the grand piano, and waiters were placing trays of food on a nearby table. Veronica’s stomach grumbled reminding her of her missed breakfast.

“Yeah, they were together, but neither of them looked happy about it.” Logan steered her toward the food table. It was laden with mini-quiches, bacon, cinnamon rolls, and french toast skewers sprinkled with powdered sugar.

Veronica quickly filled a plate, adding to it as more food arrived from the kitchen. “So how was skiing with your supermodel?”

A cocky smile spread across his face. “It was ah, _stimulating_.”

“I’ll bet.” She shoved another bacon-wrapped potato in her mouth, savoring the burst of warm melted cheddar cheese from its center. “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”

His lips parted in surprise. “Why Veronica Mars, did you actually miss me?”

“You wish.” Taking hold of his arm, she moved away from the table, putting some distance between them and the growing crowd. “I need your help.”

“Reaching the top of the tree?”

Veronica ignored him. “When the Gallaghers arrive, I want you to keep them occupied while I search their room. Same goes for the Barringtons. That is, if Geoff deigns to join the festivities.”

“How do I explain your absence?”

She shrugged. “We can stage a fight, or—”

“Won’t work,” Logan interrupted, shaking his head. “It’s not like I’d stay to decorate the tree after fighting with my lovebug.”

“If you keep calling me that”—she ground the words between clenched teeth— “our fight is going to be very real.” Veronica sighed. “But you have a point.” Knowing Logan, if she used the ‘not feeling well’ excuse again, he’d definitely tell everyone she was pregnant, and keeping up ONE charade was exhausting enough. “It has to be a fight. I’ll pretend to be jealous—”

“Pretend?”

She talked over him. “—and you can go brood in the bar. You’ll be able to see if anyone leaves the lounge and call me if they head for the elevators.” Veronica ate the last bite of her cinnamon roll. “Just remember this needs to be a tiff, not World War Three, so try to control those over-dramatic tendencies of yours, okay?”

“Don’t worry.” He cupped her cheek and smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip, capturing a bit of icing. “I know exactly how to get under your skin.” He sucked the glaze off his finger. “With very little effort.”

_Grr._ She stomped away from him, located her crate of ornaments and, for good measure, took a bucket of bells and bows.

Debbie was back on the ladder finishing the decorating of the top branches. At the base, Millie was passing her candy canes and pine cones. There was no sign of Geoff yet.

In matching dark-green fisherman sweaters, Rafe and Petra were standing by the piano with cups of eggnog. Veronica nodded. Their presence would help lend credence to the staged fight she was planning.

“Here we go,” Geoff said, walking into the lounge with a liquor bottle in each hand. “Your choice - cognac or rum.” He put the Rémy Martin and Appleton Estate next to the punchbowl, then served himself a glass of eggnog, leaving plenty of room in the cup for the booze.

“Sounds like he’s already had a few rounds of holiday cheer.” Logan sidled up next to her, personalized crate in hand. Head bent, he was looking at the decorations. “Hey, do you remember the day we made ornaments? My mother thought they’d be brilliant Christmas presents?”

The memory was instant and complete. In one of her misguided attempts at being a ‘regular’ mom, Lynn dumped a bunch of arts and crafts supplies on the kitchen table and then left them under the supervision of Mrs. Navarro. Veronica smiled. “Lilly’s was just her name in glitter.”

“While yours was this intricate memory snow globe.”

“How do you remember what I made? You and Duncan didn’t even stick around. You declared the whole thing lame and spent the afternoon in the pool.”

“Because I—”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Jim’s booming voice echoed through the room. He wasn’t in complete Santa gear, but he’d dressed in a red pullover sweater and donned the hat. Next to him, Fran was wearing reindeer antlers on her head. She was holding a white sack. Pillowcase, Veronica silently corrected. “We bring gifts from the North Pole.”

Fran started handing out the ‘presents’ - headbands and light-up Christmas bulb necklaces for the women, and elf hats for the men.

Debbie looked dismayed by this turn of events. Cheap, kitschy trinkets were NOT acceptable for the well-heeled guests. She kept shooting nervous glances at Geoff to gauge his reaction, but the laced eggnog made him impervious.

Logan set his ornament crate at his feet and tugged on his elf hat. “Tis the season.”

“You want to wear this too?” Veronica asked dryly, holding out her necklace.

He took it, but instead of putting it on himself, he fastened it around her throat, and started the lights flashing. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Scrooge?”

“This isn’t about Christmas, Logan - it’s about finding my father - who, last time I checked is still MISSING,” Veronica hissed.

His shoulders slumped, dejected. “Right, we don’t want a Year Without a Santa Claus.”

She softened at his kicked puppy expression. He was so good at covering his hurt under a blanket of sarcasm, it was sometimes easy to forget how much the holidays sucked for him. His warm family memories involved being force-fed pears and watching his philandering, murderous, abusive father get stabbed.

Veronica balanced her crate one-handed to put on the Christmas tree headband. “Case first, but tonight we’ll take the sleigh ride into town to see the lights, okay?”

“Sure.” He retrieved his ornaments then made his way to the piano for his own cup of holiday cheer - cognac sans eggnog. Veronica trailed after him.

“—storm warning,” Rafe said, taking the bottle from Logan and adding a liberal shot to his eggnog. “They’re predicting close to twenty inches.”

“It’s not supposed to start snowing until late afternoon though,” Petra added, smiling at Logan. “So we should still be able to make our morning ski.”

Millie joined them, offering reassurances. “We have our own plows and generators, so we’ll be perfectly fine here at the resort. Isn’t that right, dear?” Geoff raised his glass in a silent toast and then downed the contents in a swallow. Millie frowned as he reached for the bottle of Rémy Martin. She turned away; her gaze landed on Debbie. “But we may have to cancel the ice skating tomorrow night.”

Veronica tuned them out. She didn’t care about the movie night backup plan and whether they should watch Miracle on 34th Street, or White Christmas. It was time to get out of here. She touched Logan’s arm. “Ready to decorate?” 

“I’ll be along in a minute.” Barely glancing at her, he refilled his glass, and fixed another drink for Petra. “We should hike up Highland Bowl tomorrow.”

With a glare at his profile and a huff, Veronica walked away from them to the tree. She started a rhythm, hang a decoration, shoot daggers at Logan, hang a decoration. He remained oblivious - flirting with Petra and chatting with Millie. He even stopped to talk to Deb before finally ambling his way over.

Veronica shoved the pail of bows at him. “Glad you were able to tear yourself away from your new friend.”

“Is my lovebug jealous?”

“Well maybe if you spent more time with ME”—Veronica directed a pointed look at Petra—“I wouldn’t be mad about giving up my family holiday to come to this resort.”

“You’re absolutely right.” He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and kissed her nose. “How can I make it up to you?”

His easy agreement was unexpected. Eyes narrowing, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “This is NOT the plan, Logan.”

“It’s called improv, darling.” He took the crate from her hands, placed it on a nearby chair, and then wrapped his arms around her waist. “Why don’t we go for a romantic walk just the two of us?” Bending his head, he nuzzled her neck and placed delicate kisses across her skin.

“Logan.” Even to her own ears, it didn’t sound much like a protest.

“If you folks will excuse us.” He tucked her against his side, kissed her temple, and started to lead her from the room. “Play nice Veronica, everyone’s watching.”

Angling her head back to see his face, she graced him with a smile and slipped both arms around his middle, but as soon as they cleared the lounge, she pushed him away. “What were you thinking? You agreed to—”

“Hmm… I don’t think I did?” He tapped one long finger against his lips, considering. “Let’s see, you told me not to be overly dramatic, and I told you not to worry.” He made an exaggerated show of looking around. “We’re not in the lounge and you’re free to snoop _sooo_ …” He dragged out the word. “You’re welcome.”

Veronica closed her eyes, counted to ten. “Fine. Go wait in the bar and call me if anyone leaves.”

“Not so fast, Buttercup, I’m coming with you.” He held up a hand to stave off her protest. “I wasn’t kidding Veronica, one missing Mars is enough.” Holding up his iPhone, he wiggled it at her. “Debbie will text me if anyone leaves the lounge.”

Arguing with him was pointless and it would only waste time. “I’m going to search Geoff’s office first. Distract the clerk so I can slip behind the front desk. Maybe you can ask her to show you a trail for our romantic walk using the MAP you conveniently forgot to mention having.”

Logan shrugged. “You didn’t seem all that interested.”

Her mouth opened and closed, and she silently handed him her map. When he didn’t immediately move, she folded her arms across her chest, jutted her chin in the direction of the front desk, and tapped her foot.

“So impatient.” He strolled away to do her bidding.

It didn’t take him long to fully engage the clerk in conversation. Thoughtfully, he’d moved her to the far end of the desk, removing the flower arrangement from the counter’s shorter leg and spreading the map across its surface.

Veronica moved, skirting around the edge of the counter and using Deb’s keycard to unlock the door. It opened into a long, paneled hallway. She gently closed the door behind her, wincing at the slight _snick_ the lock made as it re-engaged. Fingers crossed the clerk was too busy with Logan to notice.

She followed the commercial-grade beige carpet. A panoramic mountain view was rendered in oils and displayed as a large triptych on one side of the hall. The other side contained office doors. It was dead quiet. No muffled conversation, no ringing phones. The first door stood open. Veronica peered inside and found the office empty. Ditto for the next two in the line. Lettering on the last two doors identified the closer one as Debbie’s office, and the final one as Geoff’s.

The lock on his door was a flimsy knob lock. Veronica slid Deb’s keycard between the door and the frame, tilting it back toward the knob and then bending it forward until it slipped under the angled edge of the slant-latch. She forced the latch, pushed open the door, and stepped into the utilitarian space beyond.

There was no time for a full search. Logan was an engaging flirt, but even he couldn’t keep the receptionist busy for an hour while Veronica looked through everything. She gave the cheap wood desk a cursory once-over. Stacks of bills—several marked past due—were piled across the blotter.

She checked the drawers and then moved on to the vertical filing cabinets. The first letter-sized drawer was marked ‘A-B’. She pulled it open and thumbed through the manilla files until she found the one labeled Better Tomorrow.

Read the file now and chance getting caught, or take the entire thing and worry about it later? She shoved the file under her shirt and backed from the office. The hallway was still deserted. She scurried down the carpet and paused at the exterior door. Carefully, she pulled it open an inch and peeked through the gap.

Flowers had been returned to their place. The map was gone and so was the clerk. Logan was leaning on the counter, his back to her. Veronica exited, letting the door close with a soft thud. It was loud enough to make Logan turn around. “Find anything?”

She circled the desk to join him. “Where’d the receptionist go?”

“You were taking a long time so I sent her on an errand.” Propping an elbow on the counter, he rested his chin in his palm and affected a yawn. Bored by waiting. “She’s arranging a romantic lunch for two.”

“And she just left the desk?”

“I can be very persuasive.” A suggestive eyebrow bob. “She tried calling the kitchen, but for some reason her phone wasn’t working.” He reached over the counter and held up the disconnected wire for Veronica’s inspection.

“Gee, I wonder how that happened.” Veronica tried and failed to hold back a grin.

With an answering smile, Logan lifted the phone and snapped the connector into its base. “Where to next, Nancy Drew?”

“The Gallagher’s suite.” They moved in unison toward the elevator. Halfway there, Veronica paused. “Do we need to wait for her to come back?”

“Who? The clueless clerk?” At her nod, he shook his head. “Our lunch is being set-up in our room.”

“Good thing I put my blankets away.” Veronica jabbed the PH button with her thumb. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know I had to sleep on the couch.”

“Chose. You _chose_ to sleep on the couch; there was plenty of room in my bed.”

The way he said _my bed_ made her pulse skitter. Or maybe it was the intense stare? His proximity? The smell of his aftershave? Veronica reined in her thoughts, and then promptly dismissed them. Logan Echolls had NO EFFECT on her. NONE. She was immune to his particular brand of charm. She dragged her eyes away from him to watch the elevator buttons. God this thing was slow.

Time for a subject change. “I found a file for the charity,” she said, pulling it from beneath her shirt.

Logan’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward to caress the collar of her button down. “Anything else hiding under there?” He hooked a finger over the top button and pulled the flannel from her skin.

She flushed and smacked his hand away. “Focus, Logan.” His grin was smug, and she pretended not to see it. There was no way she’d give him the satisfaction. “When we get to the room, you take the closet and dresser; I’ll look through the suitcases.”

On cue, the elevator dinged their arrival and the doors slid open directly into the suite’s living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered sweeping views of the snow-covered mountains.

“I just adore a penthouse view,” Logan sang, crossing the room to stand before the windows. “Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.”

Her eye roll was impossible to stop. “You’re more Zsa-Zsa than Eva.”

“Why Veronica, are you calling me a flirt?” Turning, he batted his eyes at her and then smiled. It was a real one. The kind that lit his face, pulling his mouth wide and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

It irked her. Not the smile per se, but her reaction to it. An answering happiness? A warm fuzzy feeling? Veronica scowled to cover and pointed toward the suite’s open bedroom door.

Without losing the vexing grin, Logan saluted her, and started for the room. Before disappearing inside he said, “I may flirt, but there won’t be nine spouses in my future-- when I get married it will be for keeps; I’m a one woman kind of man.”

Her mind snagged on the word ‘when.’ Not _if_ I get married, but _when_. Veronica did NOT want to think about this someday-future Mrs. Echolls. _She’ll probably be tall and like to ski and have a beauty mark over her lip_. Veronica’s scowl deepened as she pushed away the troubling thought.

Suitcases. Search the suitcases.

But there were none. At least not in the living room. She braced herself and followed Logan into the master. Luckily, he was nowhere in sight. Veronica gave the closet a wide berth, skirting the bed, and moving to the matching set of blue Samsonite neatly stacked in the corner. She started with the small train case and worked her way up through the garment bag to the large Pullman.

“Think he chose that luggage on purpose?” Logan asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You know, to really sell his ruse as the church-going, man of God?”

Her fingers stilled. “What do you mean?”

“ _Samson_ ite--named after the Biblical strongman with great hair and a weakness for the ladies. Sorta like yours truly.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Did you find anything?” she asked, hopeful, because this search of the luggage was proving fruitless.

“Nothing. Unless” —he pulled a sheaf of papers from behind his back— “you think this insurance policy is important.”


End file.
